


i'm not afraid to know my heart's desire

by Syster



Category: GOT7
Genre: Jackson is such a sub in this one, M/M, Nipple Licking, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, No beta we die like wwx, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, i imagine blondson and buffyoung but hey do whatever era you like, unsanitary piercing practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27683840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syster/pseuds/Syster
Summary: Jackson gets nipple piercings on a dare. Jinyoung is fascinated.Heed the tags guys, this is just porn.
Relationships: Park Jinyoung/Jackson Wang
Comments: 18
Kudos: 117





	i'm not afraid to know my heart's desire

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t play too roughly with newly made piercings, kids. This is fiction and as such we can explore things that are technically unsafe in a safe space, like licking day-old piercings, or fuck in a JYPE practice room on a fake leather couch.
> 
> Not beta: ed and it pains me more than it pains you.
> 
> title is from crj's masterpiece too much.

Jackson wakes up with a pounding headache and a gently gaping maw of fuzzy recollections where his memories should be. He groans as he sits up, running a hand through his hair and flinching when he feels the movement of each individual strand in his _teeth_. He’s not sure he’s _ever_ been this hungover before. Now, to be clear, since Jackson is in his twenties, he’s not a stranger in any way, shape, or form to a hangover (chased away by a greasy burger, sans bread) but he _is_ a stranger to the type of hangover that he is currently experiencing. The kind where, if pressed, you’d prefer death over things like, for example, moving or, well... existing.

Good thing that today is a choreo-day then, isn’t it, _Jackson_. Certainly won’t have to do anything like moving, or existing, or listening to really loud music that always goes a bit tinny in the practice-room speakers.

Jackson groans again, sounding out his disappointment with the situation in a mono-syllable kind of noise, and for all the languages he speaks, he’s pretty sure he’s never uttered a more universal sound.

He squints his eyes, metaphorically, towards the hazy blob of memories that makes up his shaky recollection of last night. He sorts through the blurred noise and flashes of bright and dark light trying to find some kind of narrative plot to the night before. He doesn’t find it, but it feels important, somehow, and so he decides to try again, but decides that perhaps remembrance is an activity best done wearing pants, and thus spends the next couple of minutes staring into nothing with closed eyes as he tries to get out of bed. The first two tries to get out of bed are merely hypotheticals, but at the third, Jackson uses all the willpower that made him the CEO of his own company at 20-something and actually manages to place his bare feet against the floor.

The feel of the wooden floor against the sole of his feet feel like victory, and Jackson has learned to take pleasure in the small things just as much as the big things and so he stretches his arms high over his head, flexing his fingers and every muscle in his body out, slowly wrestling back control over his body when -

A flash of pain, not _bad_ , but _present_ , previously overshadowed by the pounding headache but brought into stark relief by the stretch, and it’s centered on his chest, more specifically -

Jackson opens his eyes, for the first time since waking up and looks down. He’s a bit swollen, the way you usually are when you’ve just woken up, but his arms are still stretched high and as such, two new silver adornments, speared through his nipples, forcing the nubs into visible hardness, are proudly visible.

“What the fuck -” Jackson starts, squinting down at his chest with suspicion as slow realization starts to slog through the mess of memories previously undecipherable.

 _Look, I’m gonna need you to sign this,_ _the artist says, her pierced eyebrow raised as she hands Jackson a piece of paper and a pen because you are really way too drunk for me to do this -_

_Please, Jackson slurs, taking two tries to fold his fingers together in both an earnest and mocking replication of a prayer, please I need to win this -_

_Oh, I’m definitely_ gonna _, because this is funny as fuck, the artist says, glancing back at Jackson’s friend behind him, currently giggling as he chooses the pinkest fake-diamond available for his newly made belly button piercing, but you’re gonna have to sign the paper. I’m not getting sued._

_Jackson, already halfway through removing his shirt, signs the paper with a shaky hand, before turning around to the giggling, laughing mess of his friends, all tucked into a tattoo and piercing studio that had a solid 1.3-star rating on Maps, three of them in a battle to win **some** kind of bet._

_I’m winning this_ , _Jackson says, his tongue slipping into mandarin as he is pressed down into the chair, a needle glinting in the piercers hand, I’m_ winning _-_

He stares down at the nipple piercings as though, perhaps, if he stares at them long enough, they will surely be revealed to be some kind of shitty mirage. It doesn’t work, unsurprisingly, and when he carefully rubs a finger over one of the offending areas, he hisses as a sharp flair of kind-of pain, kind-of something else shoots through him. Fuck. _Fuck_. He’s never had the most sensitive nipples, not really, and so the sudden... uh, _attention_ to them is like being exposed to a limb you didn’t have before. A bit like hitting your tailbone against something and suddenly becoming aware of something that just you never spent any time thinking about before.

y do i have piercings?<

Jackson sends the message to yesterday's group chat, gripping his phone tightly. He doesn’t want to write out _nipple piercings_ because that just... makes it real in a way he doesn’t really want to deal with right now.

>lol

donut start with me wtf man y do i have these<

>it’s a bet, jacks. it’s u, n and r. the one to take them out first loses.

>My girlfriend laughed for fifteen minutes this morning, I can’t even talk, my tongue is so swollen.

so we’ll just take them out, ye?<

>if you wanna lose, sure. i’m winning this bet, bitch, i’m gonna make you clean out my basement.

Jackson scoffs. As _if_ he would lose, he’ll just wait out Ryujin and the tongue piercing and then he’ll take honorary second place, which sure, is rankling, but at least it’s not _last_ place, and Jackson likes to think he’s grown up a bit, learned to accept defeat a bit more graciously, a bit more maturely. He’s never gonna be a good loser, but he’s - _shit_ , he’s _fucking_ late.

He glances down at the screen and immediately scrambles out of bed, his legs tangled in his blanket, swearing as he falls into a heap on the floor, then immediately hissing as the not-quite-pain flares up again.

Jackson, feeling very sorry for himself, allows himself a _moment_ of contemplating calling in sick.

And then he shrugs into a tank-top and steps into a pair of joggers, picking up a black Team Wang hoodie to top it off, and decides to just fucking ignore it. He’s danced through back pain, a fucked-up wrist, exhaustion, and heartbreak. Nipple - _nipple_ \- piercings will _not_ break a near-perfect attendance, and if they do, then his name isn’t Jackson _fucking_ Wang.

\--

Thank God Jackson has like three names, so he can just choose another one because fuck nipple piercings _might_ break a near-perfect attendance.

They’re learning a new choreo and Yugyeom is behind it which means that it’s both complex and heartfelt. It makes Jackson feel like shit whenever he takes a wrong step or pops off-beat because he’s not only fucking up choreo, he’s fucking up _Yugyeom’s_ beautiful, heartwrenching choreo (“I made it for all of us, to show our connection, you know?” Yugyeom had told them, breathlessly, eyes big and full of wonder, and suddenly the rest of the group’s complaints about the _insane_ footwork in the middle had been completely forgotten).

The members had given him _plenty_ of shit when he’d turned up, disheveled, clutching a cup (that could only barely not be called a bucket) of coffee, eyes bloodshot.

“Fun night?” Jaebeom had said with a twist of his eyebrow, looking furiously good in an objectively awful haircut, his _intentional_ piercings glinting with the slight movement of his head.

“So fucking fun.” Jackson had answered chugging the rest of his coffee, benevolently and gracefully accepting the groups teasing, only tossing Bambam across the floor after the third time he brays a laugh _right_ into Jackson’s ear.

But right now, Jackson is not necessarily _failing_ one of the isolations, but Youngjae is, and so Jackson has to keep repeating it while Youngjae learns. That in and of itself is not really a problem, it’s part of learning a new choreo, but the problem is that it... well, it makes the fabric of Jackson’s tank top move underneath the zipped up Team Wang jacket, and scrape against the sensitive, vulnerable flesh of his nipples. They feel raw and stiff, and when Jackson presses a hand above it in an effort to just... relieve the ache a bit, Jackson swallows a small whimper.

It’s not pain, it’s _not_ , but there’s also no other name for it, no other description for the low, raw ache that becomes more and more noticeable the more his headache recedes and the further their practice commences. It’s like a light sprain about to heal, only noticeable when you shift the wrong way, making common movements just a little bit harder.

Jackson closes his eyes, for just a second, takes a deep breath, rubs a hand over the two layers of cloth over one of his nipples, the shiver that goes through his body is unintentional and unnoticed.

Well. Almost unnoticed.

Jinyoung, head cocked curiously to the side, is looking _and_ noticing.

\--

Jackson doesn’t look at the clock, he doesn’t, because he doesn’t want to know how much time has passed (not enough) and how much time is left (way too much). He’s collapsed against one of the mirror walls, leaning forward pressing his forehead against the cool floor which is inadvisable but, honestly, necessary. He feels hot, achingly hot, and shivery, almost feverish. They’re taking a break for water and a couple of interviews, their schedules jam-packed this close to a comeback.

“You coming, Seun-ah, Jinyoung-ah?” Mark asks, matter-of-factly and quietly, turning around at the door to look at the two of them. Jackson waves a hand noncommittally through the air, swallowing around the low-grade buzz of heat that’s settled in his stomach, crawling up into his throat.

“Yeah, just - a second, hyung. I’ll just - Go ahead, I’ll be there in a second.” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing himself off the floor. Mark makes a quiet noise of agreement, and the low sound also carries quite a bit of sympathy and a strong undercurrent of _Don’t worry, Seun-ah, I’ll bring you some water, I’ll wrangle the maknaes, I’ll make Jaebeom back off_ (give or take a few words or sentiments). God. Jackson loves Mark. They really should hang out more. Mark, as though hearing his thoughts, gives a small, sharp-toothed smile and ducks out after exchanging a few words with Jinyoung.

Jackson has his head leaned back against the mirror, eyes closed, and it’s only when the dark, fleshy pink of his closed eyelids suddenly darken further that he cracks them open just a bit. Jinyoung is looking down at him, smiling softly, blocking the fluorescent light.

“You could just have told them no, you know.” Jinyoung says, his voice smooth, his sweat from the dancing practice drying very artfully in place of highlight. Jackson, whose good looks are less effortless and whose sweat is definitely not artful in any way, shape or form, feels a distant sort of jealousy. Jackson scoffs as he looks up, rolling his eyes a bit, forcing his eyes to focus on Jinyoung.

“He’s getting married.” Jackson answers, in lieu of answering the actual question, “He wanted to have a drink.”

“Just _one_ drink?” Jinyoung flips his head slightly, the soft silky curtains of his hair moving gracefully along his forehead, and Jackson blames the hangover for following the movement so closely. He always _notices_ Jinyoung, always _has_ , ever since that first day they met, and his endless small, beautiful movements. The smirk quirking Jinyoung’s full lips, however, Jackson ignores (more or less effectively).

“One or two.” Jackson sniffs, grimacing slightly, “Maybe three.”

“Lightweight.” Jinyoung smiles back, his eyes disappearing into gentle crescents and Jackson smiles back in an almost pavlovian response.

The silence stretches between them, not necessarily uncomfortable, but a bit pregnant. Jinyoung wants to ask, and Jackson does _not_ want to answer, and so they stay in that moment for a minute, in between their two warring instincts.

“Did you get hurt?” Jinyoung says, in the end, breaking the silence, “Yesterday, when you were out?”

Jackson is a _shitty_ liar. He’s good enough at razzle-dazzle, at thickening his accent, widening his movements, making non-answers into jokes and laughter that distracts from the original question. But Jinyoung sees through all that, only lets himself be fooled when he _wants_ to be fooled, and so it’s... it’s touch and go, if this will work.

“Oh, _deeply_.” Jackson flourishes, pretending to press a hand against his chest, carefully avoiding _touching_ anything, “I was told yesterday that I would _not_ be best man, even though I am _clearly_ the better choice -”

“You would hold a better speech.” Jinyoung agrees, his tone light but his gaze focused, and the compliment makes Jackson stumble over his words, making the monologue falter, “Jackson, you know what I’m talking about, tell me.” There is a note of firmness in the tone, and Jackson stiffens just slightly.

Jackson mutters as he stands up, taking some time to dust off his joggers and fix the collar of his jacket. He’ll always _answer_ when Jinyoung asks _like_ that, but he’ll take his _time_ doing it. Jinyoung watches him calmly, amusement quirked in the corner of his lips, in the charming folds in the corner of his eyes.

“There was a bet.” Jackson grinds out, in the end, squaring his jaw a bit, folding his arms over his chest but then quickly taking his arms down again when the movement exacerbates his problem, “Or, well, there _is_ a bet. Ongoing, actually.”

Jinyoung raises one eyebrow in a fluid, devastating movement. The _go on_ is riddled through every dark hair of that perfectly arched eyebrow. Jackson looks away, shuffles his feet, grinds the next few words out through his teeth.

“I got a piercing. I and a couple of the others.” Jackson clears his throat, “Or, well, piercings, I guess.”

“Piercings?” Jinyoung says, his voice disembodied since Jackson absolutely refuses to look at him.

“Yeah, well, you know, it seemed like a _great_ idea at the time, not permanent like a tattoo, but a fun, embarrassing idea nonetheless -”

“Where?” Jinyoung steps closer, and Jackson feels the heat of his nearness before he’s crowded against the wall, Jinyoung’s smile still settled on his lips. Jackson looks up, meets Jinyoung’s gaze.

“Huh?” Jackson answers, eloquently.

“Where.” Jinyoung repeats, eyes flickering down the length of Jackson’s body.

“Oh, uh -” Jackson waves gestures towards his own chest, cheeks flushing pink, “- you know.”

Jinyoung blinks, and then his smile broadens. It’s not warmer, but it definitely carries something. Jackson doesn’t really want to look straight at that smile, because he doesn’t know what it _means_. He does not, however, have much choice. Jinyoung’s not stronger than Jackson, because Jackson is as much built for practicality as he is for show, but it’s not Jinyoung’s body that is effectively crowding him against the wall. It’s dark, warm eyes and full, smiling lips and the scent of Jinyoung’s expensive conditioner.

“ _Really_.” Jinyoung murmurs, “Show me.”

“ _Jinyoung_.” Jackson breathes back, his voice a bit high, “That’s not, uh -”

“I want to see them, Seunie,” Jinyoung says, voice firm and warm, and just a tiny bit mean, the way Jackson just loves. He’s always had a thing for people who are just _enough_ of a bitch. A lot of things fall into place as that thought crosses into Jackson’s mind because it casts his interactions with Jinyoung into a different kind of light. _Oh, I have a crush_ , Jackson thinks, blinking as Jinyoung stares him down, _that explains a lot, honestly._

Jackson does a lot of stupid things for the people he crushes on, he’s always been the type of boy to carry his heart on his sleeve, bad at lying and eager to be honest, thirsty for affection, and thriving on attention. He’s done plenty of stupid things for pretty, slightly mean girls who smiled at him. He’s done plenty of stupid things for the pretty, slightly mean boy in front of him. He’s gonna _keep_ doing them, honestly, if the next action he does is any indication. Jackson, blushing in a way that isn’t _pretty_ but is devastatingly earnest the way Jackson’s brand of affection is, quickly brings up one side of his tank top, revealing the silver bud firmly sat in his nipple. He moves his hand away to let the fabric fall again, but Jinyoung’s movements are viper fast as he catches it, rucking it up further, over _both_ his nipples.

“ _Jinyoung_ -ah,” Jackson says, stressing the _ah_ , because reminding him of the power Jackson _does_ have (age) seems appropriate, grabbing Jinyoung’s wrist to push it away, “C’mon, let me go, I just -”

“Seunie,” Jinyoung answers, his voice low and close to a purr, and Jackson swallows around the weakness that comes with the nickname, flushing furiously, “Seunie, why did you not just remove them?“

Jackson rolls his eyes, scoffs, “I’m not gonna _lose_.”

Jinyoung smiles broadly at that, enough to show teeth, and Jackson’s breath stutters a bit in his throat.

“Oh, no, we couldn’t have you _losing_ , could we?” Jinyoung answers, almost cheerfully, “That would be dreadful.”

“ _Yes_ , thank you, it _would_ , happy to hear you agree, now, if you just -” Jackson pushes at Jinyoung’s wrist again, but this time, Jinyoung shakes his head, tightening his hold on Jackson’s shirt. One of his hands, the one that isn’t currently holding up the shirt, skates a gentle touch over Jackson’s ribs before carefully tracing the edges of the well-defined pectoral. Jackson’s breath hitches and Jinyoung looks at him, and _oh_ , Jinyoung’s dark eyes are almost _black_.

“They look really red.” Jinyoung says with a bit of a tsk, conversationally, as though he is not pressing his hands against Jackson’s skin, as though he is talking about something a bit less controversial than his best friend’s newly acquired nipple piercings, “Are you in pain?”

Jackson takes a breath, and it shakes between his lips, nodding a bit jerkily, “Yeah, sure, something like it at least.” He does not squirm, because he is not the type of man who squirms, but if he _was_ , he would be squirming underneath Jinyoung’s gaze.

“You should sit down, then.” Jinyoung says, still painfully casual, one hand running through his curtain bangs, a move that is all the more devastating because it seems to be almost unintentional, the other hand pushing Jackson into the sofa at the back of the room. Jackson hits the seat with a soft _oof_ , blinking up at Jinyoung.

“Jinyoung-ah -” Jackson says, a bit perplexed, but whatever he was about to say is lost as Jinyoung’s long, clever fingers further bunching up Jackson’s tank top, brushing against the swollen, reddened nubs of his nipples. He gasps, his legs spasming, almost floundering off the couch, but Jinyoung presses him down against the couch’s plastic-like leather. Jackson, who has been shivering in something not-quite-pain the entire day, during the entire practice and through deceitfully long and sexually confusing conversation, sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“They seem sensitive.” Jinyoung says, like an _asshole_. He says it with the same kind of air someone would ponder the lack of rain in July or the result of the second-best horse in last week's race.

“Just a _bit_.” Jackson bites back, going for pissed off but mostly just sounding breathless, “Jinyoung, c’mon, don’t -”

“Don’t?” Jinyoung is still smiling, the gentle little lift of the corner of his lips, the one that makes him look approachable and unapproachable in equal measure, but his gaze is dark and heavy, the flick of his eyes going from the puffs of breath escaping Jackson’s lips, and Jackson’s nipple tweaked between his fingers, “Did you even clean them this morning?” Jinyoung leans forward, one of his hands caressing Jackson's well-defined torso, across the side of his ribs, the beautiful line of his pectoral becoming bicep. He grabs Jackson’s hand that is feebly clutching Jinyoung’s shirt, undetermined if it’s trying to push him away or pull him closer. Jinyoung presses Jackson’s wrist back, fingers curling over the rabbit-quick pulse, “You _didn’t_ , did you?” He tweaks the nipple between his fingers, flicking his nail over the jewelry and swollen flesh. Jackson makes a soft, hoarse sound in the back of his throat, his eyes wild and big.

“Jinyoungie,” Jackson breathes out, and he feels marooned, abandoned at sea, left to tackle the sudden flush of arousal, the stinging touch of Jinyoung’s nail amplifying the gentle, buzzing need that has been growing inside his belly the entire day, “Jinyoungie -” he offers again, not quite sure what he _is_ offering, but when Jinyoung tilts his head, staring down at him, warm and dark and overpowering, Jackson suddenly realizes that he’d let Jinyoung take _anything_.

This time, he does squirm, and Jinyoung watches the movement like an owl watching a scurrying mouse. Jinyoung does a low, melodic hum, scratching his short nails over Jackson’s golden skin, gently and playfully running each finger over Jackson’s nipple once more. Jackson arches his back, sucking in his bottom lip to bite at it, swallowing the groan that was about to escape. Jinyoung’s eyes narrow a bit, but then he continues talking,

“They’re swollen,“ he says, and had Jackson been reeling a bit less, he would’ve noticed the darker, harsher tone to Jinyoung’s smooth, polite tone. Instead, he just looks up at Jinyoung through a half-lidded gaze, flush high and stark on his cheeks, traveling all the way down over his chest. Jinyoung presses the pad of his thumb down, chasing the stiff silver encased in soft flesh, “The entire area, not just -” he presses down again, and Jackson pulls in another breath, releases it through clenched teeth, “- this.”

“Ah -” Jackson groans as Jinyoung shifts his weight, releasing Jackson’s wrist to grasp his chin, pressing a thumb against his full bottom lip, tilting his head down, making him look at his flush chest, at the taut muscles and bared skin, at the puffy, abused flesh of his nipples, at the glint of silver at either side.

“Look, Seunie,” Jinyoung says, and even though Jackson can’t _see_ his smile anymore, he can _hear_ it, threaded through the command, and Jackson _looks_.

Jinyoung’s beautiful fingers rest over the swell of his chest, framing the stiff peak of his dusk-colored nipple. And - _oh_ , it is swollen, not just the nub, but the areola has puffed up too. Jackson stares at it for a while, because Jackson has never made it a secret that he is _intimately_ familiar with his own body, with the good and bad, with every ache and burn. This is new. This is different. He swallows and says the first thing that comes to mind,

“They don’t match,” Jackson says, his voice hoarse but tone breathless. He looks up, catches Jinyoung’s eyes, gives a smile through the haze of arousal, “They are uneven.”

Jinyoung just stares at him for a moment, and Jackson is pretty sure he sees a flush rise on Jinyoung’s cheekbones but then Jinyoung smiles, broadly and beautifully and _real_ , leaning down to press their foreheads together.

“You’re right.” Jinyoung says, his voice carrying the breathless tone of a bursting giggle, the sound weaving through the swell of arousal, making it a bit heavier, a bit more golden, “We should fix that, hm?”

Jackson isn’t sure if he nods or just jerks his body in a general approximation of the movement, but the sentiment is the same. Jinyoung uses both hands this time, rolling his palms over the entirety of Jackson’s torso, tracing each defined muscle before bringing them up to rest over his chest, one thumb resting on each nipple, intently circling each hard nub. Jackson arches his back, gasping for breath, hands scrabbling uselessly at the sofa’s surface, his short-bitten nails digging into fake-leather. God, Jackson thinks, as Jinyoung pulls at the jewelry, making Jackson follow the movement tilting his body into a fine arch. _God_ , he thinks, as Jinyoung licks a wet stripe down the side of his throat, down over his collarbone, and then finally over inflamed flesh, his tongue wet as he flicks the silver with it. _God_ _-_ Jackson thinks, distantly aware that this is _probably_ blasphemy, _God, please_ \- Jinyoung locks his lips over the less-swollen nipple, sucking gently, pulling off to blow cool air, and Jackson -

Jackson _whimpers_. High-pitched and _needy_ , and Jackson is embarrassed, even through the thick, heavy haze of arousal, that _he_ made a sound like _that_.

Jinyoung, however, looks up at him, meeting Jackson’s gaze with his own wide, dark eyes, hungrily dancing across Jackson’s face, as though drinking the sight of him in, eager to remember each and every inch.

“Again,” Jinyoung says, the word low and dark as it twists from his tongue, breathed out against Jackson’s skin, “Make that noise again.” He uses tongue and teeth, fingers and pressure, wettening hot skin to blow it cold a second later, and Jackson, Jackson gasps, breathes and whimpers, needy, breathless and greedy little sounds, teased out of him as though he is a novelty instrument. He barely recognizes his own voice, he didn’t _know_ he could make sounds like these.

“Jinyoungie, please, ah -” Jackson arches his body as Jinyoung sucks on his chest, alternating between focusing on the nub and the entire peak, hands rubbing at the one not being sucked, dancing over his skin, chasing the flush spreading down over his body, “Jinyoungie -”

“Seunie,” Jinyoung answers in between wet, sloppy kisses over his chest, “Seunie.”

“Please.” Jackson begs, grinding his hips upwards, eager, _desperate_ for any friction, “Please -”

Jinyoung groans, pushing one hand between Jackson’s thighs, spreading them, forcing one knee between them, pressing the flesh of his clothed thigh against Jackson’s equally clothed cock, hard, swollen, and neglected underneath his joggers.

“Can you come like this, Seunie?” Jinyoung purrs, his voice sinfully deep, his tongue darting out to wet the full expanse of his lips, “Can you come humping my leg, like a good boy?”

“Yes,” Jackson gasps breathlessly, “Yes, yes, yes I can.” He almost sobs with relief as his hips find friction, as his cock finds something more solid than air and fabric. He’s leaking enough pre-cum to make the slide almost smooth as he grinds his hips against Jinyoung’s thigh, the delicious friction making the arousal pinpoint and become focused.

“Fuck -” Jinyoung breathes out, panting as he licks over Jackson’s nipple with a broad, flat tongue, teasing the silver bar as he passes it, “Fuck, you’re so _good_.”

 _I am_ , Jackson thinks, deliriously, pressing his entire lower body against Jinyoung’s solidity, hips twitching as he almost, almost comes, just, ah, just a bit more, _I’m good_ , Jackson thinks, whimpering as Jinyoung groans in his ear, _I’m being so good_.

“So good _,_ ” Jinyoung agrees, and Jackson preens underneath the attention, the praise pushing him a bit further along the edge, “Such a good Seunie.” Jinyoung says, and it’s a bit of a nonsense phrase, but it’s raw, and honest, and breathed out almost reverently, and Jackson _sobs_ as he starts to come, as his orgasm crests over him like waves.

He cums slowly, each crest of release pulsing through him almost lazily, like forceful rocking rather than a sudden explosion. He shivers as he slowly comes down from the hazy, drawn-out orgasm, his fingers clutching the back of Jinyoung’s shirt tightly. Jinyoung is staring at him, his face bare and full of something almost like wonder, his lips parted slightly. Jackson wants to hide from it. Jackson wants to bask in it.

“A-ah,” Jackson whimpers as Jinyoung shifts his weight, and Jackson shivers as there is another glide of friction against his sensitive, spent cock, still swollen and hard.

“I could make you cum again,” Jinyoung says, the cruder _cum_ rather than _come_ sounding all the more sinful coming from someone like _him_ , “I could make you cum again, twitching and shivering right here, maybe you’d even cry, maybe -”

“Jinyoung-ah, please, the others -” Jackson slurs, even as he tightens his grip on Jinyoung’s shirt because if Jinyoung wants him to cum again, wants him to grind his filthy, spent trousers against Jinyoung’s thigh, Jackson will do it, _God_ , he’ll fucking do it, but - “The break, I don’t -”

“You don’t want them to see you like this?” Jinyoung murmurs, voice dark and crackling, “Don’t want them to see you with your pretty new accessories and the way you cum so sweetly from playing with them?”

“Yes.” Jackson gasps, flushing so darkly he can basically _feel_ the way his entire body heats up, “Yes.” He repeats, nodding furiously. He’s not sure what he’s agreeing with. Everything, probably. Everything Jinyoung says when his voice is like that. Jinyoung is looking at him again, looking a bit lost, looking a bit like Jackson surprised him again. Then he smiles, his crescent eyes warm and heavy with affection.

“Not yet,” Jinyoung presses their foreheads together again, repeating the words a bit more firmly, “Not yet.”

Jackson nods, closing his eyes, breathing in the scent of Jinyoung’s expensive soap, of his oddly cheap laundry detergent. Jackson hums as Jinyoung straightens his clothes, tucking the tank top into his joggers, zipping up the jacket. Jackson closes his eyes, and doesn’t worry, and lets himself be taken care of.

Later, when Jinyoung has shuffled him out of the door, made some excuses to Jaebeom about a persistent headache, about Jackson needing a bit of rest, Jackson looks down at his phone, at the messages stark even on the lock screen.

> I’m taking it out. I don’t care, I’ll clean the damn basement, I don’t care, I can’t _talk_.

> one down, one to go. ready for a game of perseverance, jacks?

Jackson smiles, quickly tapping his answer out, sending it back.

bring it on, asswipe.<

**Author's Note:**

> i just love jackson and think he deserves to be fucking revered.
> 
> this is like, the first of four things i have planned.
> 
> i apologize for any language mistakes, english is not my first, or second, language and as such i fucking struggle.


End file.
